


With the Spring

by saraid



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: M/M, variances on healing ability
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-30
Updated: 2017-06-30
Packaged: 2018-11-21 14:59:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11359824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saraid/pseuds/saraid
Summary: Duncan comes to Connor in the Spring.





	With the Spring

**Author's Note:**

> I've taken liberties with Immortal healing abilities, because I like to think about how things would really work.

Walking into the general store, Connor MacLeod paused to look around. It was very early. He was the only customer, and that was just the way he liked it.

The owner bustled out of the back, wiping his hands on his startlingly white apron. Connor had never seen it so clean.

"Mr. MacLeod." The man, Alrett, was a good shopkeeper; he'd learned Connor's name on the first visit and remembered it when he hadn't seen the man in six months. "Good to see you. How was the winter at your place?"

It was still winter, really. There was still snow on the ground, and drifts piled high at the base of the mountains where Connor lived. But technically, spring had begun.

"Cold," he answered succinctly, pulling off the heavy leather gloves and stuffing them into the pocket of his long duster. His hand brushed the hilt of his sword as he pulled out the list he'd been writing for the last two weeks, in anticipation of the thaw.

"Did you lose any stock?" Alrett took the list and unfolded it, laying it flat on the counter.

"A few head. The cattle did well. The mares will be foaling soon."

"Those horses of yours. Beautiful animals." 

"I'm going to the bank, and I'll be back in an hour or so. Can your boy get everything into the wagon?"

"Yes, of course." Alrett nodded, scanning the list. "Hmm...just a moment. You want cloth?" He looked up, and Connor wondered what he saw. He'd been here about ten months. It had taken seven to get the place started, working all day to expand the existing barn, building corrals and working on the cabin before the bad weather set in. By himself. He hadn't wanted to hire any help.

His hair was longer now, but he'd shaved this morning for the first time since the snows began. Connor thought he looked like any one of the hundreds of other ranchers that came through here.

He nodded in answer to the question.

"Any preference for color or weave?"

"Something sturdy and plain." Connor shrugged.

"Alright, then."

Connor waited to see if there was anything else, but Alrett just smiled at him. Of course, Connor was making a large purchase and he always paid cash, so the man was glad to see him.

Maybe he was getting a bit cynical.

 

"Mr. MacLeod!" the bank teller spoke up as he came in. "There's a telegram for you. It came last week. We weren't able to deliver it through the storm."

Connor went to the window, not hurrying, half-afraid of what it would say. Had someone died? Lost their head? Had he lost another person he loved?  
He accepted the folded paper and broke the seal, stepping away from the counter to read it privately.

'Finished in Europe. Stop. Expect me in spring. Stop. Duncan. Stop.' 

He couldn't prevent the smile that spread over his face.

"Good news?" the teller, a tall thin man, asked kindly.

"Yes, it's good news," Connor answered. He folded the telegram carefully and tucked it into the interior pocket. "I need to make a withdrawal, and have funds transferred from another account."

"Of course, sir." 

He signed the paper and then waited patiently, half-leaning on the counter, while the man went to take care of it. He needed to check his mail, too, but he could do that after he finished this. It was convenient for the bank, the post office, and telegraph office all to be one place.

If Duncan were coming, it would be nice to stay together for a while. Since the slaughter of his Indian tribe, the younger MacLeod had been hiding in Paris and knocking about Europe with his friend Hugh Fitzcairn. He'd gone to some trouble to track Connor down - they didn't always tell each other where they were going. Duncan liked cities and big life, while Connor preferred solitude and contemplation.

He'd had plenty of that over the winter, though. It would be good to have some company, especially with all the work he needed to do. They both knew how to work hard. And they played hard as well. He allowed himself a small, secret smile.

It had been more than a century since he and Duncan set up house together. The American West drew both of them; the freedom and anonymity that made it such a popular place with bandits also made it a haven for Immortals who were tired of being hunted. Tired of hunting.

He would have to see what he could do to convince Duncan to stay for a while. Ten or twenty years. Maybe thirty...

The door opened, and he turned his head, not moving otherwise.

Three men entered. They had a look that he recognized, dirty and haunted, too thin. Mean.

Connor's hand fell to his gun, under the coat. There was no buzz, so he was in no real danger, but he'd put in a lot of effort establishing himself here. He didn't want to die and lose it all.

The teller came back, saw the men, and looked worried.

His eyes went directly to Connor's, and Connor gave him a half-nod.

 

"Here's the statement on the transfer." 

"Thank you." Connor didn't even look at it, just stuffed it into an outside pocket.

The three men spread out around the room, one looking at wanted posters, the two others idling by the post office window, which was closed for the moment.

"And here's your withdrawal." The man didn't count out the money, just scooted it beneath the metal grill that protected him. This Connor scooped up and tucked into an inside pocket swiftly.

"Is there anything else I can help you with, Mr. MacLeod?" The teller was clearly frightened, and Connor didn't think he should leave yet. It was one   
thing to avoid trouble, another to leave an innocent man to face it alone.

Well, he could kill some more time. Or bad guys, if necessary.

"Yes. I'd like to send a telegram." He smiled briefly.

"I'll get the paperwork."

The man ducked under the counter, and Connor stiffened as one of the three came up behind him. His hand still rested on the butt of his gun.

While he was giving the address to the clerk, he kept an eye on the men. 

They still seemed to be waiting, for what Connor wasn't sure. He didn't think it was just to get in line behind him. They looked too hard for that. 

"And what would you like it to say?"

"Accepting offer. Will arrange payment. Send delivery details."

"Is that everything?"

"That will do. I'm going to check my mail." He paid the man with a few coins, thanked him, and went to the post office boxes, opening his with his key.

There were a couple of letters. One from Duncan, sent before the telegraph, and one from Robert and Algelina de Valicourt. He put these in the inside pocket as well, saving them to be read later, at home, when he could relax and enjoy them.

He took his time closing the box. The oldest of the three men had approached the teller and was being waited on. It seemed that he just wanted to start an account.

Connor listened a moment, then caught the clerk's eye. The man nodded with a smile, looking relieved.

"Thank you, Mr. MacLeod. I'll see you next time."

Outside, he paused. Duncan could get here anytime now. It was a toss-up whether he would take the stage or the train. Chances were he wouldn't send another message with a more exact arrival time.

Connor couldn't afford to stay in town indefinitely to wait for him. The stage should be in by nightfall. He would spend the night here, just in case he was lucky, but then he would have to get back out to the ranch. It was a two-day trip, and he'd only left enough feed for four. The animals would be hungry when he got there.

That decided, he went to the hotel and got a room. The proprietor seemed surprised, but was happy to take his money and give him a small room with a decent bed.

His supplies were loaded into the wagon by the time he got back. Thinking about Duncan's arrival, he decided to add a few more purchases. Some extra sugar, because Duncan had a sweet tooth. Cocoa powder, for the same. More salt pork, another side of bacon, and a ham. His next supply run might be sooner than he planned, but the two of them could go through food fast.

He went to the hotel for lunch. He felt vaguely foolish; why was he hanging around here when there was work to be done? The odds against Duncan showing up the same day Connor got the telegram were ridiculous. But sometimes things worked that way between them. What some people would call coincidence, Connor would call fate. Something told him that he should wait to see if Duncan arrived today. So he waited.

The chicken fried steak at the hotel was better than what Connor made. It would be good to have Duncan around for that, too. The younger man was a much better cook. After lunch he was at loose ends. He went back to the general store and flipped through the catalogs for a bit. There were a few books he wanted, so he ordered them, knowing it would take weeks for them to get there. Then he went to the saloon to buy a few bottles of brandy and whiskey. He couldn't find the Glenmorangie that Duncan liked. Out here, he was lucky to find one brand of the good stuff.

Connor recognized the men from the bank in the bar, but didn't let their presence deter him. There was a poker game in progress, as always. With a grin Connor waltzed up to the table and put his hand on the back of the empty chair.

"Need another?"

"You got cash?" A man in a flashy black suit was dealing. Connor recognized him as a gambler known as Long Pete.

"Of course."

"Siddown."

He antied up and watched the deal closely. Immortals had a small advantage when it came to poker; they had longer to learn the body language and the poker face that made the game.

Connor's hand was mediocre, and he bet conservatively, and lost. No harm. After a few hands he'd figured out the dynamics and started winning. He watched the dealer carefully, pretty sure the man was stacking the deck, but unwilling to call him on it and cause a scene.

The man from the bank earlier, whose name he learned was Fred, was becoming angry, though. He'd lost several large pots in a row -- Some to Pete and some to Connor, who was happy to win back as much as he bet. He was killing time, not in this for the money.

 

The swinging doors opened, and the sheriff, Bart Wilkerson, came in. He looked the place over and went to the bar and ordered a drink. He was watching the card game.

Connor kept his eyes on his cards and didn't look up. He didn't know the sheriff or his reputation. If he was going to stay here a while, he should find out more about him. The town was friendly, though, so he imagined that the sheriff was a good man.

Towns with bad sheriffs tended to be angrier places, with more trouble.

It was getting late. He glanced at the door a few times, although he knew he'd feel Duncan before he could see him. The sheriff had come and gone.  
Fred had lost most of his stash and was looking angrier by the minute. Connor saw the glare he was directing at Pete and decided that it was time to go. This had been a remarkably peaceful day; he didn't want it ruined by an outbreak of violence.

When he began picking up his winnings and putting them in his coat, Fred spoke up.

"Where do you think you're going?"

"It's time for me to go," Connor answered, trying to tone down the French accent he'd picked up over the last few years. "I have a long way to go tomorrow."

"You ain't goin' anywhere before I've had the chance to win back my money." Fred pushed back from the table. The others followed his gesture, and Connor frowned.

"Stay another hand or two," Pete suggested, looking as if he was bored by the confrontation. "Maybe he'll get lucky."

"It really is time for me to go." He hadn't eaten since lunch, and he was hungry. He'd been drinking, too. Though his Immortal healing lessened the effects substantially, he would still feel better if he chased all the whiskey with some food.

"You hiding something from us?" Fred stood, and Connor saw that he was swaying.

His frown deepened. A big man like that, he would have thought he could hold his liquor better.

"No," he sighed, and flipped back his coat to make sure the gun was visible. 

"It was a pleasant game. I thank you all for allowing me to join you."

"Anytime, MacLeod." He'd given his name, and they had chosen to use the surname, as most people did. He'd never understood why. Pete was smiling at him faintly.

"You sit back down!" Fred shouted.

"Back off," Connor said, also somewhat bored by the man's antics. "I won, you lost, that's the end of it."

"Not to me!" Fred's hand was on his gun. The saloon, not particularly crowded, got quiet, and the others began moving farther away. Pete was smiling more widely now. "You're a cheat."

 

Connor sighed.

"I don't want to have to kill you over a card game." He would give the money back, but that was against the rules. If he did that, everyone would know that he wasn't what he was pretending to be -- just another lonely rancher.

"Draw, dammit." Fred snarled, and Connor saw him sway again.

"Are you going to shoot me in the back?" 

"Coward."

"This is ridiculous," Connor told him. "Are you just looking for an excuse to be shot? Because if you are, I can..."

His words were cut off when both of his arms were grabbed from behind. Damn! He'd forgotten that the man wasn't alone. The other two had him, and as much as he struggled he couldn't break free.

"This is murder," he snarled, temper rising. He saw one of the boys that worked at the saloon start for the door, but Fred waved the gun at him and he stopped.

"We ain't gonna kill ya. Just take back what's ours and a small penalty for your cheatin'." Fred nodded at his friends, and Connor felt them digging into his pocket.

He couldn't let them find the sword. 

He was preparing to dislocate his shoulder to get his arm free, figuring he could end this with one shot, when he felt the familiar tingle of an Immortal's presence. It was almost a sound, the voices of those gone before brushing over him with a touch of electricity, and he stilled.

Though it had been years, he recognized the signature. He knew he always would.

A smile came to his face and he looked toward the door expectantly.

Duncan stepped in, a Winchester in his hands, looking thunderous. It was pointed directly at Fred.

"Heh, heh," Connor laughed. "What kept you?"

"Sorry. The stage was late." Duncan grinned at him and Connor couldn't help an answering smile, though he was worried about how it would look to these people. "Let him go," Duncan directed Fred, who was growling.

"Put down that gun or I'll gut him," Fred responded.

Duncan jacked the Winchester, faster than Connor could have imagined.

"And you'll be right behind him." 

Fred looked at his friends, then at Connor.

Pete, who had moved to the other side of the room, came to stand beside Duncan.

His hand was on his gun.

 

"That's enough of this. The game was fair."

"Nobody has to die here," Duncan said, and Connor knew how much he meant that.

Duncan was sick of death. He'd said so many times.

"You ain't getting away with this," Fred growled. But his friends were letting Connor go.

"Connor," Duncan said. Very quietly. Almost a warning. 

"Aye, Duncan." He shook himself, feeling the coat sway with the weight of his sword. He went to Duncan's side, with a nod at Pete.

"We'll be seeing you around!" Fred shouted at him. He was flanked by his friends now. Connor turned, standing beside Duncan, and nodded to him.

"Of course you will."

They left together. Connor had to restrain the urge to throw an arm over Duncan's shoulders. He led the other man back to the hotel, where they slipped into the room he'd rented, and then he was free to do as he pleased.

"Good timing." he commented, coming at Duncan with his arms wide. If Duncan wanted to avoid the hug, all he had to do was move. And he did -- he moved into it, and they were hugging each other tightly. Duncan pounded him on the back, clearly very happy to see him.

"As always. Were ye cheatin'?' He pulled back and met Connor's eyes.

"No. He was just very bad."

"A bad loser as well," Duncan laughed.

They pushed apart, hands on shoulders. Connor studied his clansman. "You look good. Better."

"You look rested," Duncan replied.

"Staying for a while?" He hedged the question, not sure Duncan was ready to decide yet. Connor wanted him to stay, but didn't want to push his wants on Duncan.

"I'd like to." Duncan smiled. He needed a shave. The thick black beard covered his strong jaw and made his face that much less pretty.

"A little while or a big while?"

Duncan laughed out loud, pulling him close again. He was stronger than Connor, bulkier.

"Ah, Connor! I've missed yew."

The embrace was tight, and Duncan nuzzled his face into Connor's neck and just held him. Connor gave a sigh and relaxed.

"Duncan?" Connor asked after a few minutes. The tight hold had them pressed together rather intimately. He could feel everything Duncan's body had to tell him.

 

"Mmm. Yes, Connor?"

"Could you stay a few years this time?"

"We haven't spent much time together lately, 'ave we?" Duncan murmured, lifting his head.

"Not much, no," Connor agreed.

"I've neglected yew." Duncan looked sad. "I'm sorry."

"You can make it up to me," Connor told him, leaning in until his lips just brushed Duncan's. "Spend a lifetime with me."

"A few years, at least. I'll have to think about the rest." Duncan closed the final millimeters between them, and kissed him. Connor groaned, all too happy to be in his arms again. The kiss rapidly became something deeper. Duncan opening his mouth and invited Connor's tongue in to play. He leaned closer, both hands moving to hold Duncan's head as he pushed it back, and Duncan arched against him, letting Connor control the kiss.

They broke apart, panting.

"It's good to have you here," Connor told him. "I'm glad you came."

"I'm glad to be here."

He kissed Duncan's chin, his nose, then his lips again.

"Have you eaten?" There had been times when that was a very important question.

Times food had been scarce, and they had both determined that the other should eat first, or eat more, or eat better.

"Some very bad stew this morning."

"The hotel has a decent restaurant."

"Feed me," Duncan told him, laughing.

Connor kissed him one more time before pulling away. Duncan looked around. Connor saw him note the lack of personal effects.

"I just took the room for the night. Something told me you'd get here today."

"So how far out is your place?"

"Two days by wagon. I came in for supplies and found your telegram waiting for me." Connor went to the door, and they walked out. Now he did sling his arm over Duncan's shoulders, casually, comfortably.

"So you only got it today?"

"This morning."

"And I got here today. There's magic at work here, Connor," Duncan chuckled at him. His eyes looked peaceful, and he touched the hand on his shoulder once, like it was a talisman.

 

"I've always said that something wanted us to be together. The odds of two of our kind being raised by the same clan..."

"I know," Duncan answered. For the moment he seemed subdued. Connor hoped he wasn't feeling guilty about not spending time with him.

"Let me tell you about the ranch." He hadn't given it a name or anything. That was a bit of nonsense about the romance of the West that the people back East seemed to believe in. "I've got two hundred head of beef cattle, and thirty stockhorses. I got most of the mares from captured Nez Perce herds. They're powerful animals, and they've all got the spots."

"The Appaloosa?" Duncan asked, taking an interest. Connor knew Duncan didn't love horses the way he did, but Duncan appreciated them.

"Aye. And two palominos, the golden ones. I've bred them all to this old gray. He's big and fast, the ugliest horse you've ever seen."

"How old?"

"He's getting to twenty, if I'm any judge. I got him cheap. But I've bought a really wonderful stud from Kentucky. He should be here in a few weeks."

"You breeding racehorses, then?"

"If I can."

"You've always wanted to do that." Duncan smiled fondly at him as they entered the restaurant.

"I decided to take the time to do it." Connor was feeling more relaxed, more comfortable in his skin, than he'd felt in a long time. He'd needed this, needed Duncan here, to draw him out of his reclusive ways. There wasn't much to do in a place like this, but what there was Duncan would find.

"And what am I supposed to do?" Duncan teased him as they sat, with fresh cups of coffee and a choice between the grilled steaks and roast beef. 

"Whatever you want. You could start another newspaper, though it would be hard to run if you were living at my place. Or you could just cook and clean and take care of me."

Duncan leaned forward, grinning as he said, his voice very low. "I will noh be your wife, Connor."

"But you're really the domestic type, aren't you? You cook, you clean, you do laundry..." 

"You taught me to do all those things!" Duncan was laughing at him.

"But I was never as good at them as you are."

"Unfair," Duncan told him, leaning back again so the food could be put on the table. 

"You just can't stand to do anything halfway," Connor told him.

"That's the way it's supposed to be," Duncan answered, with a flash of teeth from behind the beard.

 

Except love me. Connor thought it, and then shushed himself. It wasn't fair to accuse Duncan of not loving him enough. The love between them changed as time passed.

It became stronger, then faded slightly, only to come back stronger again. There was no one Connor loved more. No one he trusted more. If Duncan felt like he had to spend most of his time chasing after women, that was fine. They all died eventually.

And Duncan came back to Connor.

Sure, he'd like it if Duncan wanted to spend the next few centuries with him. He'd even be willing to stay in the city, any city, to be with him. But there were women in cities, lots of them, and they all seemed to want Duncan. 

Connor's thoughts kept him company while he ate. Duncan did seem to be hungry; he wolfed down his meal and asked for seconds, which were brought promptly.

"That stew must have been really bad," Connor observed.

"The worst. I could barely stomach the potatoes, and it takes a lot to ruin potatoes."

They had pie and coffee at the end of the meal, and Connor saw that Duncan's eyes were starting to droop.

"When was the last time you slept?"

"All night?" Duncan sighed, then yawned hugely. "Last week sometime? The ship ran into a few late storms, and the stage is always so damned rough. I would have ridden, but I knew you would have horses."

"We should go to bed," Connor told him, leaving money on the table to cover the meal. He offered a hand, and Duncan took it, allowing Connor to pull him to his feet.

"That sounds like a plan." Duncan grinned at him.

 

Connor sat up reading the only book he'd found at the general store that he hadn't already read. They was a marvelous thing, mass-printed books. Like learning to read had been, the first time. He'd been in France, and so he'd learned in French, not English. Odd, considering that he'd been born in Scotland. Now he read four or five languages, he didn't remember how many exactly, but he knew Duncan could read more.

The younger man had taken to learning with a zeal that surprised Connor. He'd always thought of himself as the smart one of the pair. Not that Duncan wasn't intelligent. He was just more action-oriented than Connor, more inclined to act before he thought. It was odd that he'd discovered such a fire for learning within himself. Connor had no doubt that he would turn to teaching in the future, spreading that fire around.

 

Now Duncan was sleeping deeply. He needed a bath. Connor had offered to wait in the morning, long enough for him to get a bath and shave, but Duncan, like most Immortals, was cautious about letting anyone they didn't know near his neck with an edged weapon. Considering how long neck wounds took to heal, even a barber's razor was enough to cause pain. He'd decided to wait until they got home.

He also knew that Connor didn't like to leave things unattended for too long. There was always the chance they'd get back and find the homestead claimed by squatters, or half the herd missing.

Connor'd left the horses in the pasture, and hoped none of them would be tempted away by the mustangs that occasionally came close.

With a sigh, Connor stood and stretched, then began to disrobe. Spring or not, it was too cold to sleep in the nude, so he left his longhorns on. They were faded red, and he thought they looked amusing. But they were warm. Duncan was wearing a cotton gi, something he'd picked up in his travels through the Orient.

Connor wished he'd brought back a few of his sets of his own. He had to admit it didn't look as silly as the baggy-bottomed longjohns. The gi was split up the side and tied, leaving three-inch slits that could be put to interesting uses.

He slid into the bed. It wasn't large, but he wanted to sleep close to Duncan anyhow, so that wasn't a problem. He was trying to not wake the other man, but Duncan rolled over and opened his eyes almost as soon as Connor lay down.

"What time is it?" he asked, blinking.

"After midnight. Go back to sleep."

Duncan's dark brown eyes stared at him from beneath a fallen lock of black hair, freed for sleep. He pulled an arm out from under the covers and reached for Connor, who wasn't settled yet.

"Come here."

"You're not too tired?" Connor asked. He wasn't really worried. Just wanted to give the other man the option of more sleep if he wanted. There was no hurry. Duncan had already said he would stay.

Duncan snorted, one hand on the back of Connor's neck, applying gentle, steady pressure.

"Have I ever been?"

"Too drunk, perhaps..." Connor smiled and leaned down for the kiss. After a minute, he slid a leg over Duncan's hips, then followed with the rest of his body until he was laying on top of him.

"Mmmm," Duncan made an approving sound and wrapped both arms around his waist.

"Duncan," Connor said quietly, between kisses. Just to reassure himself that he wasn't dreaming. When he woken up this morning, sleeping in the back of his empty wagon, he hadn't expected to be here tonight, in a warm bed with his favorite student and best friend. His clansman.

"Connor." Duncan met his eyes, and it seemed like he was amused. Not laughing at Connor, but teasing him. Connor kissed the smile from his face. 

This wasn't the place for acrobatic lovemaking, and they were both tired. So they kept it simple. Duncan reached down between them and undid the buttons at the front of Connor's longjohns, and Connor undid the ties at Duncan's waist that held the wrapped gi pants on. Their erections came together. They sighed as one, then began to move.

Connor dropped his head down to push his forehead into Duncan's chest, the muscles there rippling as the other man thrust up with his hips, hard, meeting Connor's downward thrusts. It was good, but not enough to bring them to completion. Connor licked his hand as best he could and reached between them, wrapping it around both straining cocks. Duncan moaned, and his hands tightened on Connor's hips. He began directing the movement and Connor let him, riding the wave as Duncan arched harder and higher. He lifted his head to watch, his hand tightening and stroking faster, and then Duncan was grabbing the back of his head and kissing him hard.

Connor swallowed the moan that threatened to wake the neighbors, and then felt the hot release of Duncan's orgasm spill over his hand. The scent and feel of it was enough to trigger his own, and he shuddered quietly while Duncan held him and petted him.

They cleaned off with a couple of bandanas, and then curled together, Duncan resting his head on Connor's chest, with a leg and arm holding Connor in place, while Connor petted him and patiently untangled the thick black hair.

"It's gotten long."

"I got tired of cutting it," Duncan mumbled. He was almost asleep.

"I'm happy you're here." Connor leaned to kiss the top of Duncan's head. The hand on his chest patted him affectionately.

"Happy to be here."

Connor covered that hand with his own and closed his eyes. Their breathing was even again. He felt loose and warm, more relaxed than he had in months.

It was good that Duncan was going to stay.

 

They got off to an early start the next morning. Since they were carrying so many supplies, they decided that it would be good to have a horse for Duncan to ride. The wagon was packed full, there was barely room for Connor on the seat.

They went to the livery to pick up Connor's team of draft horses. Duncan negotiated briefly for a rawboned gelding that seemed quiet. He was sound, and there weren't any mares that Connor wanted. He made arrangements for the stallion that was being shipped in. The livery owner would pick him up and board him until the next time they made it into town.

It was a typical day. The bakery was open, so they bought fresh bread to eat as they went. Duncan's trunk was at the bank, which also served as the stop for the stage, so they picked it up, which required much shifting and re-arranging of supplies.

"What do you have in this thing?" Connor grumbled as they finally lifted it onto the buckboard.

 

"Books. Records. A Victrola. Clothes."

"You brought all of that?" Connor was flabbergasted.

"I knew I would be staying a while." Duncan gave him a sweet smile.

"And you still made me ask?" Connor climbed up to his seat, shaking his head.

"You asked before I had a chance to say so," Duncan responded, swinging into the saddle. He'd already slid his Winchester into the saddle holster.

Connor clicked to the horses, and they set off at a steady pace. 

They were passing the far edge of town, near the schoolhouse, when they realized they were being followed. Connor turned his head just enough to catch a glimpse out of the corner of his eye, then stared at the track they were following.

It wasn't much of a trail. Not many people lived out this way. They were on the very border of the settled territory. He'd bought as much land as he was allowed to from the government, then bought more from the people who owned the piece next to him, which left him with nearly two thousand acres. He wanted it for the privacy more than the pastureland. If he wanted to, he could rent it out to others to for grazing, and he assumed he would do that eventually.

He glanced at Duncan, and Duncan caught his eye. They exchanged a look, and Connor knew Duncan had seen them, too. Fred and his buddies. He'd known they were no good as soon as he saw them. They had probably just been biding their time, waiting for a likely victim.

Little did they know, he thought darkly. He'd as soon shoot them as look at them, but Duncan would insist that he wait until they did something to deserve it.

For just a moment, he was worried about his cabin, and his horses, but there was no way they could know about it, or where it was. His home, this most recent of them, was safe.

As they passed the last house on the outskirts, Duncan slid his Winchester from its holster and cradled it on his elbow, the horse moving obediently as he reined with one hand, riding to the far right of the wagon.

Connor was glad to have him there. He was always safest with Duncan beside him.

Several hours out of town, Duncan started dropping behind. Connor slowed the wagon, then pulled the horses to a halt.

"What is it?"

Duncan brought the gelding around at a trot and came back to speak to him.

"They're still following us." Duncan patted the thick neck of the horse. "I thought I might swing behind and spook them."

"I don't want them finding the ranch."

"We could give them a chance to take us."

 

"I'm not sure that's what they want." Connor had kept his head low when he moved here, had done his best to slip into the area without a fuss. But he'd opened a bank account and always paid for things in cash. It was hard to guess if the bandits were just looking for the cash he had on him, or if they thought he might have more at home.

"If they follow us home, we'll take them," Duncan said calmly. His eyes were hard.

Connor smiled, enjoying seeing his friend protective of him.

"So we let them follow. What if they go back for reinforcements?"

"You're not really worried." Duncan smiled now.

"No," Connor admitted, smiling back.

"Then we'll leave things as they are." Duncan clucked to the horse and set off again at a trot. They had gotten an early start, but Connor had expected to be back on the road yesterday afternoon. He wanted to get home before dark tomorrow, so they were going to have to push.

He brought the team up to a fast walk and watched Duncan ride off ahead, nudging the gelding into a lope. He was the epitome of the masculine West as he rode. The polished stock of the Winchester gleamed in the faint sun. The muscles in his thighs bulged under tight denim as they gripped the horse.   
Duncan had ridden with the Indians long enough to prefer bareback. Neither of them could remember a time when they hadn't been able to ride. It was something they had both learned as small children. The Clan had been more warlike in Connor's time, but riding and fighting were still important when Duncan was a young man.

His face, when he turned back to look at Connor, was dark from the sun and the heavy beard made him look like a gunslinger. A hard man. His hair flowed to the middle of his back, tangled and as black as an Indian's.

It was no wonder he'd loved living with them, being one of them. The Indian tribe had been a substitute for his Clan. From the Lakota, Duncan had received the kind of welcome and responsibility he had always wanted from the family left behind centuries ago.

Connor had grieved when Duncan lost that family, too. He wanted a chance to make it up to the younger Immortal. To show him that they could be a family, just the two of them. If Duncan felt a need to gather mortals to take care of, that was fine with Connor. He wouldn't go looking, but if someone drifted into their lives he wouldn't chase them off.

You could say a lot of things about the West. There were people back East who thought it was exciting, tantalizing. Connor knew they would be depressed to learn that it was really like any other place. Living there was mostly about work and boredom -- mostly boredom -- with the occasional flash of excitement that a man quickly outgrew the need for.

Keeping the horses on track according to the sun was easy. He pointed them in the right direction and they walked along, with heads bobbing, snorting. The white feathers on their legs were gray with mud as they churned up the melting snow, which was only a few inches thick, left over from the last blizzard.

 

Well, the last so far. Connor tipped his head back to the darkening sky and studied it. One last storm for the year wouldn't surprise him. The weather here was unpredictable.

Duncan saw him look and rode around the wagon, to his side. The gelding was holding up well, and Connor thought they should keep him. Duncan had ridden wide during the day, but as twilight deepened, he kept close.

"Think it's going to storm?"

"Not tonight. Soon."

"If it waits until we get there, we'll have a good excuse to hibernate together for a few days." 

Duncan's smile was very white against the beard.

"I think it will wait that long," Connor smiled back.

"Do we want to camp?"

"We're going to have to. Pick a spot ahead."

Duncan nodded. Then, to Connor's surprise, he urged the horse very close to the wagon and reached out, grabbing the back of Connor's neck and pulling him close enough to kiss.

A hard, hot kiss that made Connor groan deeply and yank too hard on the reins. The horses stopped, no doubt confused.

"We have an audience," Connor reminded him when Duncan pulled back, not letting go. The gelding shifted, and Connor watched Duncan's thigh bulge and relax as he controlled it.

It wasn't that big a deal. Women were scarce and men had relationships, everyone knew that. The polite fiction was that if a woman was available that would be preferred. It just wasn't spoken of. It was far more important out here how hard you could ride, how well you could shoot. If you kept your word.

"They aren't going to live long enough to tell anyone," Duncan answered.

Connor felt himself rise when he heard the bloodthirsty words. Duncan was clearly in a mood.

"We'll have to keep watch tonight." They wouldn't be able to touch each other, it would be too dangerous with Fred and his band trailing them. They might try to take them when Connor and Duncan were vulnerable.

"I know." Duncan snarled. "Maybe they should die just for that."

"I thought you would be against killing them," Connor said, taking one last kiss. He made it gentler, sweeter, before he pulled his neck free of Duncan's powerful grasp.

"I may be." Now Duncan sighed, his hand trailing down Connor's neck to his shoulder, where it stopped to give a squeeze before letting him go. "It depends on how long they make me wait to get you alone in a bed."

"You say the nicest things." Connor couldn't seem to take his eyes from Duncan's. What was the younger man trying to tell him? There was something there, in those dark brown eyes, some message he was missing.

Duncan sat up, clicked to the gelding, trotting ahead to scout a campsite. 

Connor drove on, thoughtful.

Whatever he was missing, he would figure it out soon enough. Neither of them was gifted with words. Or particularly open emotionally. Still, they always found a way to tell each other what was going on. Duncan would tell him, or he would figure it out.

 

"Connor?" Duncan walked over to his clansman, asleep in a bedroll by the fire, and shook him awake. "Connor."

"What is it?" Connor woke quickly, hand going to his gun he'd slipped beneath the saddle he was using for a pillow.

"I think they've caught up to us."

"Merde." Swearing in French, Connor sat up and then scrambled to his feet. "Have you seen them?"

"No. But the animals have gotten quiet."

Connor stood beside Duncan, listening.

"I don't hear anything."

"Yes. The little animals, they should all be making noise. They were, until an hour ago. The lizards and owls and rodents are all silent."

"This is a Lakota thing, isn't it?" Connor turned the brush a quick kiss against Duncan's cheek before he stepped away. "You take that side, I'll go this way."

Duncan nodded, and they split up.

The fire had died to embers, and it was very dark. Connor found himself wishing, not for the first time, that Immortals were gifted with something other than ordinary eyesight. Good ordinary eyesight, but there was nothing that would make him able to see in the dark any more than a human could.

He stumbled in the heavy brush, and went to his knees. The knees of his denims had large wet spots when he stood again.

A sound behind him made him turn, quickly, gun drawn.

He couldn't see anything.

There was a sound, a couple of feet to his right. It sounded very close. Connor turned. He cocked the gun, but before he could pull the trigger he heard a man's laugh.

The sound of the shot was very loud.

His gun went off as he fell. He didn't think he hit anyone.

Two shots rang out in close succession. Duncan ran in that direction, straight through their camp, startling the tethered horses.

"Hold up there!" Fred's voice. They should have been more careful.

 

The darkness had conspired to give the mortals an advantage.

Duncan aimed the shotgun and pumped it once.

"You better not shoot. Not if you want this fella back."

A large, lumbering shadow came into view, and behind him Duncan heard someone stoking the fire. It blazed brightly, and his eyes stung. When they cleared he saw that the shadow had been Fred dragging Connor's body into the camp.

"Is he dead?" he had to ask. It would be easy enough to let these guys just shoot them, but they would lose everything. The supplies, Duncan's things, the horses, their swords.

And digging himself out of a shallow grave was always a horrifying experience.

"Not yet. He seems to think you can save him." Fred dumped Connor beside the fire. Connor's eyes opened for a moment as he moaned in pain, then shut again. Duncan heard him whisper, and his heart clenched.

"Duncan..."

Duncan looked him over. He saw the blood that seeped from between Connor's fingers where he held his stomach.

"I know you can't save him. It's a gut shot." Fred said with satisfaction. "Should take him hours to die. If you try to save him, it might take days." He seemed pleased with the prospect. "You could always put him out of his misery, but I bet you won't."

"What do you want to bet?" Duncan asked. He was still armed, though he knew the third man was behind him. He could smell him. Duncan took a step closer to Connor.

"You want to shoot him? Lovers' quarrel?" Fred smirked. 

"I don' want to watch him suffer," Duncan said thickly.

It was clear that Connor was suffering. He squirmed in the dirt, in slow motion, little whimpers escaping between his gritted teeth. The blood continued to drip slowly.

"But he thinks you can save him." 

"Save him from the pain," Duncan said. His head snapped up, the image of Connor, tormented, burnt into his brain. "Nothing will save you from me."

"You talk big for a guy with three guns on him."

"You said you wanted to make a bet." Duncan snarled. "What's the bet?"

"I bet..." Fred looked at him, then down at Connor, then back to him again. "You guys do that dirty stuff to each other?" 

"We love each other, yes." Duncan's hands clenched on the stock of the Winchester.

 

"Men together like that. It's just sick, isn't it, boys?" Fred glanced at the other two for confirmation, and they made loud sounds of agreement.

Duncan waited. He could see that Connor wasn't dying very fast. Fred was right, a shot like that, he could take hours to die. And if there were any infectious material left in his abdomen, he was likely to die again later, and then again. Until it was all cleared out.

It was like a mortal getting an infection; the invading material had to be killed off. Only for Immortals, that sometimes involved dying once or twice to get it all out of their systems. Peritonitis from the perforated bowel - and it was shredded, Duncan could see the bits of it around Connor's hands, could smell it in the air - was inevitable, even for an Immortal.

If he died right away Duncan would have a chance to wash it all clean before the healing started knitting him back together again. That would help.

"Then you put your dick up his ass? Or does he do that to you?"

"That's none of your business." He would never be surprised by the lows mortals could sink to. Immortals, too, but it seemed that there were more mortals who dallied in sadism than Immortals. For his kind, the Game was often cruelty enough.

"I'll let you kill him. Put him out of his misery," Fred said with a leer. "But you gotta do it right; stick the gun up his ass and blow the top of his head off."

"NO!" Duncan almost took a physical step backwards.

"You do it or I do." Fred was really enjoying this.

"That's...that...you dare call us sick?!"

"Okay, I will." Fred knelt beside Connor, who moaned again.

"NO!" Duncan shouted again. He fired his gun, and heard the reports of two other guns; one in front of him and one behind.

The shots burned as they entered him, his chest and shoulder.

The last thing he saw as he fell, dying, was the shock on Fred's face as his chest exploded with the force of the shotgun shells.

 

Pain was always the first thing he felt.

Duncan once thought that returning to life should be something beautiful, like the way he felt after a serious round of lovemaking. Half-dead with pleasure but so worth it.

It never was. It was always feeling; pain, and then sound, and then sight. More than he wanted of all three.

As soon as he could, he opened his eyes a slit and looked around.

He was lying pretty much were he'd fallen. It was close to dawn; the sky was beginning to lighten.

 

Fred's body lay dead beside Connor's. Duncan was only a few feet away, and he could see that Connor was truly dead now. The stomach wound had caught up to him. And Fred was very, very dead.

His two compatriots were sprawled on the ground on the other side of the fire.

There were several empty bottles scattered about them. The supplies in the wagon had been rifled through; they must have drunk Connor's liquor.

That would make him mad.

Duncan got up, as carefully as he could.

He stretched and went over to check the two men. They were both passed out. He stared down at them, thinking about things. Then, with a sigh of regret, he picked up one of their guns.

They had killed him. Helped Fred kill Connor. There was no reason to let them live. 

But he wasn't an executioner. He tried to not take that role.

With a sigh, Duncan tied the two up and sat down beside Connor's body, waiting for his lover to wake.

 

It took longer than he thought it would. The sky was already darkening again. The two mortals were still insensible, piled together. He'd thrown a blanket over them to prevent freezing. Though he didn't think anyone with that much alcohol in their bloodstream could freeze.

As soon as Connor's heart beat Duncan felt the return buzz. He leaned over Connor, watched his face scrunch up, touched his face gently as he opened his eyes.

"Duncan?"

"I'm here, Connor."

Connor made a retching noise, and Duncan rolled him to his side, carefully, and held him while he dry heaved. There was nothing in his stomach, of course. He would be ravenous, too, when the healing finally ended.

Duncan helped him sit up and fed him sips of water until Connor pushed the cup away with one hand. The other was twisted into Duncan's coat sleeve.

"How bad is it?" Duncan asked. 

"Bad - hurts. Inside." Connor gasped and sweat broke out on his forehead.

"Ready to die again?" 

Connor shook his head violently. Then he shuddered, and his body spasmed.

"Connor." Duncan pulled the other man into his lap and held him. Not too tightly, he didn't want to add to Connor's pain. With one hand he pressed  
Connor's face to his neck. 

 

Connor moaned and twisted. Duncan caught his legs with one of his own.

"Now, Connor?"

It was sometimes a guessing game; Connor had healed enough to regain life, but the only surcease from the pain would be to die again. Duncan knew well what it felt like. To have your insides re-arranging themselves willy-nilly. Connor's body knew what it was doing, but there was a price.

The moans rose to a scream of agony. His belly was pressed to Duncan's and the younger Immortal could feel things moving around under the skin. It made his own skin crawl, but he held on.

Connor screamed again.

The initial healing was always too fast. A survival trait. Heal enough to escape, then you could suffer through the corrections. It seemed like the healing skipped the blueprint when it needed to. Especially in the case of multiple traumatic injury, like have your gut blown open.

Connor screamed again, and Duncan bit his lips, holding on more tightly as the twisting became actually writhing.

"Now?" he demanded, pulling Connor's head back so he could see his face. "Now, Connor?!"

"Now..." Connor panted. "Duncan." The name was a plea for release.

"I love you," Duncan told him. He held Connor to him with one hand and freed the Bowie knife from its ankle sheath with the other. Another thing learned living among the Lakota. It was like the Sgian Dubh he wore in the bindings of his leggings during his youth. He didn't think he would ever feel comfortable without a knife at his ankle ever again.

"I love you," he said again, sliding the knife between Connor's ribs, directly into his heart. Neat, clean, it killed him instantly.

His features smoothed with the peace of death.

Duncan heard a faint noise and looked up to see his two prisoners watching him.

"What are you?" One of them asked faintly. He looked pale and sick.

"Something you don't want a fight with," Duncan told them. He gently lay Connor back down on the ground, using a blanket to pillow his head. 

When he approached, the smaller of the two men lost control of his bladder. Duncan stopped and frowned, wrinkling his nose.

"Stay away from us!" the other shouted, actually trying to move to a position between Duncan and the smaller bandit. "Leave him alone, you unclean thing!"

"I think I'm the cleanest one here." Duncan said, sniffing ruefully.

"You're evil."

"What am I going to do with you?" Duncan put his hands on his hips and studied them. 

Connor would come to again, sooner this time. They might have to repeat the cycle several more times before he was completely healed. He didn't want an audience for that. Connor's pain was private.

"I'll find a way to kill us both before I let you touch us."

The brave words helped make up his mind.

"What is he to you?" Duncan gestured at the smaller man.

"My little brother."

"You haven't done him any favors, bringing him out here after us."

"We didn't know what you was."

"Don't think you do now. Be still." He leaned close and cut the ropes he'd tied the men with. They were swollen with wet from the light snow and too tight to simply untie now.

"What are you doing?!" The man hollered, yanking his brother away from Duncan.

The movement caused them to both fall on the ground awkwardly. 

"Letting you go," Duncan said quietly. "I've got other things to worry about here, and I don't feel like killing you today."

The man looked disbelieving. He grabbed his brother, and they pulled each other to their feet.

"Just remember." Duncan hardened his voice, made it crack like a bullwhip. It almost drew blood. "He -" He stabbed a finger in the air toward Connor's body, " - is more important to me than any number of your kind. If I ever see you again, I will kill you."

"Not if we see you first," the younger one muttered, and Duncan was pleased to see the older brother slap him across the face, hard.

"Owww!" he wailed, the blow no doubt exacerbating a formidable hangover. 

"Don't you get it?" The older brother hissed, trying to watch him and Duncan at the same time. "He's letting us go. He could kill us, but he's not going to. You only get lucky like this once!"

"But he - he's - "

"He's letting us go." The older brother looked Duncan in the eye. "We weren't always like this."

"Find a better life." Duncan told him, the knife still in his hand. "Find better friends."

"We will." With a last long look - trying to decide if Duncan would shoot them in the back? - the two of them left the camp, the older dragging the younger, who was complaining about his head.

Duncan sighed and went to see if he could set the wagon to rights. Connor would be waking up again soon, it would be good if he could get something stronger to drink into him. It would help with the pain.

 

By mid-afternoon the next day, they were back on the road. The two Immortals spent a very long day healing and resting, then spent the night cuddled together by the campfire. Duncan allowed himself to sleep. He trusted his judgement of the older brother. They wouldn't be coming back. Not soon, anyhow.

He knew from experience that the turnaround wouldn't last forever, but maybe it would last long enough for them to find another way to earn a living.  
He marveled at how good it felt to just lie there and hold Connor and touch his hair, stroke his back. The lines of pain had faded, and his clansman looked the same as he had since the day Duncan met him. His hair was a little lighter -- the strong sunlight here bleached it -- but the nose, eyes, chin, hands - they were all the same.

He looked younger than Duncan. He'd been younger than Duncan when he met his first death.

He looked like, and smelled like and tasted like and felt like, Connor.

The only unchanging constant in Duncan's life.

Amanda changed her hair, her clothes, even her weight frequently. It depended on the style of the time and place. She always looked like Amanda, but sometimes he had to look beneath the cosmetics to see her. Others were the same. Fitz was so changeable that Duncan was sometimes sure the man could shape-shift, like in old stories.

Connor stayed the same.

Duncan was old enough to appreciate that.

The going was easy enough that they stopped for lunch at a stream. It was cold with snowmelt, and tasted clean. Duncan smiled as he drank cupped handfuls, and then he splashed it over his face, snorting at the sudden cold. The fringes of his hair got wet and clung to his face. Connor laughed when he looked over at him. 

Duncan squatted beside the stream, with the wet hair on his face, his hat pushed back. The leather ties tangled with his hair. 

"You look good, Duncan," Connor told him, building a quick, hot fire to make coffee.

"We get to your place, and you won't have to just look," Duncan announced, rising to a crouch and stalking Connor, who watched, feeling the smile that spread over his own face. He took two steps back from the fire and lowered his stance as well.

Duncan stalked him around the fire. Their eyes met. Connor saw the hunger and the happiness in Duncan's.

"Come here," he taunted. "See anything you like?"

"Something I want!" Duncan lunged at him, faster than Connor had expected, and he let himself be caught by strong arms, pushed to the ground by a broad shoulder.

 

The wind would have been knocked out of him if Duncan hadn't changed the angle of his descent as they fell. He landed hard, but his head was saved from the ground by Duncan's hand. Duncan was sitting astride him, leaning over him, one hand planted beside Connor's head, their groins aligned

"Phew," Connor teased. "You need a bath."

"I'll take one in the stream," Duncan offered. His face was open and flushed. "If you'll join me."

"The water's cold." Connor lifted his hips experimentally, and Duncan pressed down, increasing the friction.

"We'll warm it up."

"It's barely knee-deep."

"We could lie down."

Connor burst into laughter at the thought of them making love in the shallow stream, the water icy, rocks in their -- probably his -- back and butt.

"I don't think so." He lay still again, and reached for Duncan's face with both hands. Duncan let himself be pulled down into a kiss. After a few minutes, he relaxed further. Stretched his legs, and lay down on top of Connor, who spread his thighs and let Duncan's body settle between them. The intimacy of the position made Connor shiver. Duncan kissed him once more and then tucked his head into Connor's neck, sighing deeply. His breath was warm. Connor held him tightly.

The sun was faint, but he was warm with Duncan spread over the top of him.

"The water is boiling," he said after a while.

"We should get back on the road."

"What about lunch?" That was why they had stopped. For lunch.

"I think I squandered all of our free time." Duncan slid off him and sat up, holding out a hand.

"This was better than food," Connor scolded, taking the hand. They pulled each other up and went back to the fire. Duncan made coffee while Connor cut bread and cheese and made rough sandwiches. They had a cup each while they ate the food quickly, then filled each cup again before using the dregs to put out the fire. 

Connor put things away while Duncan covered the fire. He was careful to use sod and to sweep the area clean. Then he scattered leaves and a few handfuls of snow taken from a small drift nearby.

"I thought you said they weren't following anymore?" 

"They may still try to track us. The storm might wash away the wagon tracks, but they could still find the fire."

"Now they can't."

Duncan looked up at him. "Not unless they're better at this than I am."

 

"I doubt it." Connor truly did. Duncan had learned from the best. His years with the tribe had been spent as a warrior.

"If we hurry we can get there before dinner," he told Duncan, swinging back onto the seat of the buckboard.

"I know I'm cooking," Duncan said, mounting his horse. "That means you get to feed the stock and put away the supplies."

"Then you'd better make a nice dinner," Connor retorted.

 

Their arrival was heralded by the deep booming bark of the dogs. They rushed out from the barn through a door Connor had cut for them. He watched while Duncan's horse danced with agitation.

"Guess he doesn't like dogs!" he said cheerfully as Duncan cursed and brought the animal under control.

"I knew there was a reason the man wanted to sell him!"

Connor pulled up in front of the cabin and looked around.

Everything looked peaceful. The horses were still in their pens. They began calling and stomping, wanting to be fed. He shaded his eyes and looked out to the left, where the cattle usually grazed, and saw the familiar shadow that indicated their presence.

Duncan calmed the horse and tied him to the nearest fence, then stood still with his hands extended for the dogs to sniff.

"Rom and Remus," Connor told him.

"They half wolf?" 

"I don't think so, really," Connor told him, moving to unhitch the team. "I just like the names." He led them to an empty corral and turned them in, with a pat and a promise to clean them later.

Duncan was looking the place over, and Connor waited to see what he thought.

There was a tidy two-room cabin, with real windows, and a large barn. Two smaller sheds, a large pasture fenced with rails, and three corrals. Most of the horses were in the pasture; the stud had one of the corrals to himself.

"This was mostly built when I bought it. I added the windows and the big fence." He nodded at the gelding. "Put him in with the Clydes, he should be safe there." He came over and patted Duncan's horse.

"It's nice, Connor," Duncan said, slowly undoing the cinch and lifting the saddle from the horse. He lay it over a fence rail and kept looking around.   
They were right at the base of the mountains. He looked up, and saw that a cliff rose almost directly behind the house. "Good windbreak."

"But it makes the snow pile up." Connor pointed to the drifts that lay piled between the cabin and the barn. "A pain to clear it all the time."

Many of the horses were muddy and scruffy looking, thick winter coats stiff. The mares had heavy bellies that hung with the weight of their foals.

 

"We should put them away if a storm is coming."

"Later." Connor watched Duncan turn the horse in. There was a bit of fussing, a few half-hearted kicks, and then the Clydesdales accepted their puny cousin. "You start on the supplies and I'll start unloading."

The wind was beginning to pick up. They both looked at the dark clouds that gathered to the north, and then went to work.

It had already started snowing by the time they got the anxious horses into the barn.

Connor went after the stud while Duncan got the mares more or less equally divided in two large pens inside. He filled the two large water barrels from the well, and then climbed into the loft to pitch down hay. There wasn't much left.

"The grass better show soon," he called down to Connor, who was fighting with a large horse that was indeed as ugly as he'd said. It looked swaybacked, and it had overly-large hooves. The stallion's coat was an unpleasant muddy gray.

"That is one ugly horse," Duncan commented as he climbed back down the ladder.

Connor led the animal to a large box stall and shut the door behind him, wincing when the stallion kicked angrily at the wall. "Ugly temper, too."

"I think it's the weather. He's usually pretty calm." Connor went to the door and called the dogs in. Duncan looked around and saw that the barn was really multi-purpose. There was a stack of nesting boxes on the back wall, beside a makeshift tack room. Hens fluffed and clucked at the disturbance of their routine.

They ran back to the house together after struggling to shut the big barn doors and get them barred.

They had stacked the supplies on the left side of the cabin, the kitchen area. They took up all of the room. After they got the door shut and bolted, Duncan looked over the mess. They'd been in a hurry, so it wasn't stacked neatly, just basically thrown into the room.

It was a nice room, though. Not huge. There was a large stone fireplace built into the dividing wall, with two comfortable looking chairs sitting in front of it, and a few things on the stone mantle. There was oilcloth tacked across the windows, and Duncan understood the width of plain blue muslin he'd carried in.

The table was long. There were four straight-back chairs around it, with one side pushed to the wall opposite the door. The cookstove and cabinets took up the other wall.

There was a large chest that Duncan recognized sitting between the two chairs. An oil lamp sat on it, and there was another one on the table, packed in by supplies.

"I guess we're going to have to find somewhere to put that stuff until the storm blows out." He went over and picked up a large bag of flour, then looked at the kitchen area, wondering where to put it.

 

"There's some space in the bedroom," Connor said. "We can put your trunk there, too. Then we'll move the supplies out to the shed after the storm blows out."

The trunk was pushed up against the back of a fireplace chair. Duncan worked his way around the chairs and trunk to the door. It wasn't a large door and he had to duck to walk through it without banging his head.

When he stood again he stopped, and smiled at what he saw. Connor knew him well enough that he stopped, too, and stood behind Duncan. He put his hands on Duncan's hips and let them rest there while he leaned to whisper in his ear. "Think it will hold up?"

Duncan laughed out loud, a bellow of happiness. "Aye, I think so!"

He went into the room and set the bag of flour on the floor by the far wall, which was bare. The bed was large, and constructed of what looked to be solid timbers.

There was a pile of pillows at the head.

"Remember the one in London?" Connor went over and sat on the bed, reaching down to take off his dripping, muddy boots.

"Oh, the manager was furious." Duncan sat beside him and copied the movement.

"And the one in Westhiemer?"

"You would think we'd learn." Duncan dropped his second boot to the floor and tugged off his hat. He flung it across the room, where it landed on the sack of flour.

"But you don't like sleeping on the floor," Connor reminded him.

Duncan stood, shed his coat, and then lay down with his feet on the floor and his arms over his head.

He closed his eyes. The bed was very soft. A feather tick, he was certain.

"Did ye get this just for me, Connor?"

"Only if I can share it with you." Connor's voice was closer than he expected. He opened his eyes and saw Connor's face, close enough to kiss.

"And who else would you share a big bed like this with?" Duncan half-sat, and pulled Connor into a hug. It was really more than a hug, almost an embrace, but not quite. The time wasn't right yet.

This was the West, and there were priorities.

"Let's get that stuff sorted away for now, and then you can cook dinner." Connor kissed his neck, then pulled away.

"What are you going to be doing while I cook?" Duncan teased.

"Heating you a bath!"

"Only if you share it."

"The tub isn't that big, Duncan."

 

"Where is it anyhow?"

Duncan watched while Connor lifted the hanging edge of the quilts that covered the bed. Beneath it were several boxes and crates, and a round metal tub that he pulled free.

"We should build a water closet." Duncan suggested.

Connor straightened, the quilt falling back into place, and smiled at him.

"A bathing room. A project for the summer."

"Yes." Duncan smiled back at him, pleased to see him happy. Just pleased to be here generally. "I'll start dinner."

 

It took a while to get all of the supplies stashed away. The cupboards were bare, so Duncan spent a few minutes cheerfully filling them. Meanwhile Connor pumped water into three large pails and set them on the wide stone hearth to heat. He built up the fire, then bundled up to dash outside and bring in more wood.

Since he had the time, Duncan started a stew, then made pastry crust and rolled it out. It was getting late, and he was hungry. Connor needed to eat, to recover from all the healing. But they could sleep in. The animals were tucked away and the storm was only going to be worse by morning.

He had two fresh apple pies assembled by the time Connor got done with the water and the wood. He set them aside and made biscuits, putting them in the stove. After he played with it for a minute, Connor came over and showed him the best position of the flue.

"Food will be ready in a few minutes," Duncan told him, turning his head. Connor was right behind him, close enough to kiss, so Duncan did.

"Do you want to bathe before or after?"

"Is it hot yet?" 

Connor went over and checked the temperature of the water. He had shed his outer clothes after the trip to the woodpile, and picked up the ones Duncan had left in the bedroom, hanging them all on pegs beside the door.

In his denims and faded flannel shirt, he looked like any other cowboy. His hair was relatively short, his shoulders and chest broader and more firmly muscled than Duncan was used to seeing.

"Not really. Warm."

"I want a hot bath." Duncan told him, stirring the stew and adding a few spices.

"Yes." Connor came up behind him and put his arms around Duncan's waist and squeezed.

"Why don't you open my trunk and pull out the Victrola? I brought a bunch of recordings."

 

"Okay." Connor kissed the back of his neck, then bit him, gently. Duncan couldn't help but respond, pushing back against Connor's body with a sigh. Connor bit him again, harder.

"I'm going ta feed you!" Duncan protested.

"But you taste good." Connor continued to bite until Duncan had to grab the counter for support. His hand got too close to the stove, and he hissed as it burned, and he pulled it back.

"Connor. Go get the music."

He got another kiss on his neck, and then his lover released him.

After a few more minutes, he was ladling the stew into heavy pottery bowls. The biscuits were done, so he put the pies in. Connor brought out the Victrola and set it on the table between them. He picked a recording, seemingly at random.

The lilting strains of an orchestra playing Mozart filled the room.

Connor sat at the table and sighed.

Duncan sat across from him and began eating.

"Duncan."

"Hm?" He looked up, saw that Connor wasn't eating.   
"Something wrong with the food? You should be starving."

"No. Everything is good." Connor picked up his spoon and took a bite. It was hot.

"Then eat," Duncan told him.

The wind was blowing outside. It made the scratchy music sound more delicate than it was. Connor smiled at him.

They ate in silence, the music keeping them company. Connor ate half-a-dozen biscuits, which made Duncan laugh.

"Next time I'll make more," he promised, when the plate was empty.

"When will the pies be done?"

"In time for breakfast!" Duncan laughed at him. He would cover them with a damp towel, and put them in while making coffee in the morning. Stir up the fire, add wood to the cookstove embers, and they'd bake while he went back to snuggle with Connor until the cabin warmed up. There was a reason he liked snowstorms.

Between the stove and the fire, the room was becoming very warm. While Connor did the dishes, Duncan stripped to the longjohns bottoms he wore under the denims.

Connor watched him as Duncan set up the tub in front of the fireplace. Even his longjohns fit well. It was irritating.

"Let me help." He wiped down the few dishes they had used and started the pump again. It took many pails to fill the tub, and the water was icy cold.

 

Duncan stripped off the longjohns and waited while Connor poured the heated water into the cold, then stuck his hand in it and smiled. With the boiling kettle of water on the cookstove it would be just right.

"Good?" Connor asked.

"Just right," Duncan answered. He stepped in and sat down, with his knees drawn up. It really wasn't a large tub, but the water reached his chest when he lay back. He sighed, putting his head back and closing his eyes.

Connor set more buckets to heat by the fire. Then he went to crank the Victrola that was winding down.

He sat in his chair and watched Duncan.

The younger Immortal soaked for a bit, then took the washcloth and store-bought soap Connor offered and began to scrub. 

There were, of course, no lingering traces of the abuse they had suffered, but it seemed to Connor that Duncan spent longer than he needed to cleaning his chest and throat.

"Let me," he said, standing and taking the cloth. He knelt behind the tub to scrub Duncan's back. His clothes got splashed. When he was done he stood and stripped.

Duncan lathered his hair and stood with his head tipped back, asking Connor to pour another bucket of warm water over his hair to rinse it. Connor couldn't resist the temptation to let his hands wander while he worked the last of the suds out of the thick dark mass.

Shaving was a shared pleasure. Connor used the straight razor with infinite care. To let another Immortal that close to your throat was the ultimate statement of trust among their kind. Duncan was equally careful shaving Connor. Neither of them got so much as a nick.

They dipped the dirty water out with buckets and refilled the tub, and Connor took his turn. Duncan stayed naked during the process, and Connor enjoyed looking at him as much as he wanted.

When Duncan came to the side of the tub to return the back scrub, Connor reached out and stopped him with a hand on his hip.

"Here," he said. "Come here."

"Connor?"

Instead of answering, Connor pulled his hips closer and nuzzled at Duncan's half-erect cock. It smelled of soap and a touch of sweat, and Duncan, who groaned.

"Yes, please." His hands came to stroke through Connor's hair, shaking slightly.

Connor licked his cock from balls to tip, sucking briefly at the head, and then he kissed Duncan's belly. The muscles rolled as he struggled to hold them tight.

"I think I'm clean enough," Connor said, rising from the tub. "I bathe frequently, after all."

 

"You'll catch your death doing that," Duncan teased, pulling the other man close as he stepped from the tub.

"You still think bathing causes pneumonia?"

"I think you cause palpitations." Duncan took Connor's hand and put it over his heart. "Feel."

"It is beating rather hard," Connor agreed. He moved his hand down to cover a nipple. "I thought it was warm in here."

"Getting warmer every minute," Duncan breathed.

They kissed until Connor shivered, the water evaporating off his skin and chilling him. Duncan drew back, picked up a cloth, and dried him briskly. Then they emptied the tub together. Duncan cranked the music, and Connor blew out the lamp.

It was dark in the room. The fireplace glowed, and they could see past the flickering into the other room.

"That's a nice design," Duncan spoke at length.

"It keeps both rooms warm and uses less firewood," Connor agreed.

"How are you feeling?" Duncan pulled him close again. Their skins were warmed now, from the fire, and the scent of musk rose in the air around them.

"Good." Connor leaned in to kiss him, his hands cupping the curves of Duncan's ass.

"Good." Duncan kissed him back, then kissed the tip of his nose. "I hate to see you in pain."

"I feel the same way."

"I don't know if I did the right thing, letting them go."

"I don't know if I would have survived having my head blown off from the inside."

They kissed for several minutes. It was warm and sweet. Their tongues slid and tangled together.

"I was afraid," Duncan said at last, his hands holding both sides of Connor's head, their lips brushing.

"I know." Connor stuck his tongue out and traced the contours of Duncan's mouth. It made the younger Immortal groan. "Are you afraid now?"

"No." Duncan chuckled, and moved his hands to Connor's shoulders, mirroring their positions. "Now I want to go to bed."

"With me?"

"Of course."

"That's good too." Connor slipped his hands down and wrapped them around Duncan's waist, and side-stepped them toward the door. 

 

"We could just walk, yew know."

"You're a better dancer than I am," Connor added a back-step to the motion, and Duncan followed. He slipped his hands around Connor's neck.

"You're leading."

"For now." 

It was silly, but Duncan didn't care. He seldom saw Connor act silly. Fitz usually fulfilled the requirement for silliness in his life.

Duncan decided that he liked this side of Connor.

They made it safely into the bedroom, where Connor backed him to the big bed and turned them both with a flourish so that they landed side-by side, facing each other.

The music stopped in the other room.

They looked at each other, and then Duncan exerted his greater strength to pull Connor hard against him.

"Good, Duncan." Connor chuckled his signature laugh. "Establish the boundaries of the battle."

"Not a battle, Connor," Duncan said, kissing him deeply before breaking away to continue. Their hands were stroking each other's bodies eagerly. "Not a game, either."

"A dance, then." Connor rolled to his stomach with a moan. "This time you get to lead."

"Ah, Connor. I am honored." Duncan straddled him. His big hands worked at the muscles in Connor's back, smoothing out the knots and aches that healing couldn't quite take care of. Connor turned his head to the side, pillowed it on his arms, and smiled.

"It's good you're here," he said after a bit.

"You need taking care of," Duncan agreed. 

He stroked Connor's back, moving down until he was kneeling over the other man's knees and his hands were kneading the firm flesh of Connor's ass.  
He bent down and kissed each cheek.

"Yes, Duncan," Connor sighed.

Taking the encouragement, Duncan kissed at the top of the crack, where the paler flesh that seldom saw sunlight began. He licked at it with the tip of his tongue, and his own cock hardened at the sound of Connor's deep, rumbling groan.

Connor lifted his hips from the bed, making himself more available to Duncan. He had to swallow the smile as he worked down, he couldn't smile and lick at the same time. Not well, anyhow.

He remembered well how much Connor loved this act. 

To another it seemed disgusting, unnatural. Duncan figured that once you were Immortal there really wasn't that much you shouldn't do. He had held Connor while he healed from sword wounds, gunshot wounds and burns. Connor had done the same for him.

They were fortunate that nursemaiding each other didn't require a lot of messy care.

Fresh from the hot bath, washed with lavender soap, there was nothing about Connor that smelled or tasted bad at this moment.

Duncan had to put his hands on Connor's hips to stop his wriggling when he got to the pucker and sank the tip of his tongue into it. 

The thought of anything being shoved violently into that defenseless entry made him shudder. He would kill anyone that hurt Connor that way. Had killed Fred for simply threatening it.

"Duncan..." Connor groaned, and he turned his attention away from the thoughts that had inadvertently caught it and back to what he was doing. He sank his tongue deeper and stroked the walls of the passage. They were relaxing under the caress.

The taste and scent were stronger here, but still not unpleasant. Connor moaned and Duncan had to work to keep him still. He felt the muscles in his arms strain and enjoyed the feeling. He liked making Connor a little bit crazy.

He needed to get up and go find the oil he was sure was around here someplace, but he was enjoying himself too much at the moment. He wanted Connor to enjoy this this as much as possible. Duncan worked his mouth, summoning saliva, withdrawing his tongue and thrusting it back in. He set as fast a rhythm as he could maintain.

Soon Connor was moaning continuously. His hips pushed against Duncan's tight grip and his head rolled slowly from side to side.

Duncan looked up, feeling the wetness on his own chin, and smiled.

Connor looked good. He was sweating. The muscles in his shoulders and hips were bunched and tense. His hair was sticking to the back of his neck.

"Mmmmm..." Duncan purred as he slid back up Connor's body and nuzzled under the shoulder-length hair, licking the sweat off the back of his neck. He slid his hands down to Connor's hip, resting his full weight on the other man. 

"Please," Connor gasped. "Please."

"Just a minute, Connor..." It only took that long to locate the oil in chest by the wall, where he'd known Connor would keep it. It was hard to leave him for even that long - Duncan slid quickly back onto the bed with him.

"Please, Duncan." Connor reached for him.

"Aye," Duncan sighed. He used his hands to grip Connor's hips, lifting them slightly as he rose to his knees. Connor pushed up onto his elbows. Duncan bit the back of his neck lightly as he bumped his cock into the crease, seeking entry, but slowly.

"Duncan!" Connor bucked back. Duncan felt his cock enter far more quickly than he'd intended.

 

"Connor," he gasped. The heat and pressure always stunned him.

His lover didn't say anything else, just started his own rhythm, moving on Duncan's cock. The younger man thought that he was supposed to be leading in this encounter, but then he decided that it didn't matter. He went with Connor's movement, pumping his hips in the stroke Connor set, and he felt the flush that covered his body.

It was good, but it soon wasn't enough. They had been working up to this all day; his body wanted more, and wanted it now.

Duncan let go of Connor's hips and wrapped his arms around his waist. He sat back on his heels, pulling Connor's back to his chest and settling his cock deep inside the other man.

Connor moaned again, louder, and began riding him. His hands found the headboard and hung onto it for leverage. Duncan's fingers dug into his hips. The bruises healed almost as fast as they were created.

Connor's head fell back to Duncan's shoulder, and his hair tickled Duncan's neck.

Duncan looked down over Connor's flushed body.

The older Immortal's thighs bunched and strained as he lifted and lowered his weight, Duncan's cock deep inside them, then almost out, then deep inside again. Duncan's hands traveled Connor's chest and shoulders, stroking his pecs and playing with his nipples, making the little nubs firm. 

Connor's cock stood out from his body, proud and weeping. Duncan enclosed it in both hands and began stroking it roughly.

Connor began muttering in French. In private times they often lapsed into Gaelic, but French always seemed to come to the fore during lovemaking. Perhaps because there were things that couldn't be said in their childhood tongue. Perhaps because French really was a language made for loving.

"Amour de I vos grandes mains, votre grand ne, vos cheveux noirs et coeur pur. Te ˆˆtes les miens, Duncan MacLeod, vous serez toujours les miens. Votre robinet ,,pais et vos lŠŠvres molles sont les miens. Te pouvez me baiser pour toujours. Te ˆˆtes le seul prix que je jamais voudrai ."

Duncan's mind translated the words, and his hands tightened on Connor's cock, and then Connor was coming. The thick liquid dripped over Duncan's hands, and Connor's muscles clamped down on him tightly and Duncan lost track of his thoughts as his own body slid into the same ecstasy.

When he could breathe again, they were still sitting up. Connor was slumped backwards, Duncan supporting his weight. He accepted it gladly despite the pain in his tired muscles, hugging the other man close.

"I love yew," he whispered into the nearest ear. His voice was thick, he didn't mean to be so emotional.

"Aye," Connor sighed. He shifted and Duncan helped him lie down. They were both a little stiff.

Duncan spooned around Connor's back and felt his cock slide free. 

They were sticky and sweaty, but they still smelled good.

He kissed the back of Connor's neck and then licked it methodically, like a cat washing a kitten.

Connor chuckled. His hand came back to squeeze Duncan's leg.

"We could get a cloth."

"I want to do it," Duncan mumbled. With his eyes closed Connor filled his world, all he could see or feel or smell.

Connor allowed himself to be rolled over and positioned so Duncan could clean him, head to toe.

The lovemaking had been powerful enough that he didn't get hard again. Neither did Duncan. He just traveled Connor's body, his tongue seeking every spot, every drop of sweat or semen, lapping it up delicately.

When he was done, he dropped a kiss on each of Connor's toes, which made him sigh, and crawled back up the bed. Connor opened his arms and pulled Duncan  
close.

"How long is a lifetime this time?" Connor asked softly into the dark. The fire was dying, and it was starting to get cold in the room. They needed to get under the covers soon.

Duncan turned his head, resting on Connor's chest. He had one hand at Connor's waist and one leg between Connor's.

"I do noh know."

Connor sighed, and ran his fingers through Duncan's sweaty hair.

"I'm sorry, Connor." All of the years behind them could be heard in Duncan's voice.

"I understand, Duncan. However long you stay, it will be enough." 

Duncan always left him. Sometimes Connor left first, but only because he wanted to leave before Duncan did.

"You let me take advantage, Connor," Duncan sighed and hugged him closer with the arm around his waist. 

"Ten years, Duncan. Or twenty. Thirty or forty. Five or one. It doesn't matter. As long as you spend them with me."

"I will, Connor." Duncan lifted his head to seal the promise.

Connor bent his neck, and they kissed on it.

The fire cracked and popped, and the light lessened suddenly. Connor laughed, and started moving them under the thick covers. There was a quilt he'd bought from a woman in town, and other thick warm things. He'd taken the heavy fur off before he went into town. He could surprise Duncan with it when winter came again.

 

Winter would come again to the West. Eventually winter would come to his heart, too. For the time they spent apart was the coldest for him.

Duncan came to him in the spring.

Duncan brought the spring.

 

"MacLeod?"

Rousing from memory, Duncan MacLeod looked up from the polished oak surface of the bar. 

Joe Dawson was standing across from him, leaning heavily on his cane, concern in his eyes.

"Are you going to be okay?" The Watcher was getting old. Duncan could see it in the way he moved. In the lines of his face, and the gray in his hair.

It would be hard to lose Joe.

"I'm okay," he assured the mortal, rising from the barstool he'd occupied every night for the past few weeks. He wasn't drinking. Just nursing a scotch while he thought.

"I'm good."

"Do you want to crash at my place tonight?" Joe didn't look convinced. He'd been worried since the night Duncan took Connor MacLeod's head. “I've got to run an errand first, but I'll be back soon."

"No. I'm fine, Joe, really. I'll walk you to your car." 

Joe shook his head and came around the bar. Together they walked out into the fresh air.

Winter was here. The ground was frozen. There was a scattering of snow drifting across the small parking lot.

Duncan made sure Joe got to his car safely. He shut the door and leaned an elbow on the window.

"Look, Mac. I know it's not my place. But you need to stop brooding over this."

"I'm not brooding, Joe." He was honestly surprised to realize it himself. "I'm remembering."

"The good times or the bad?" Joe's eyes were steady.

"Both." Duncan patted the man on the shoulder. "This was what Connor wanted, Joe. I know that."

"But it's hard to let go." 

"Aye," Duncan said. He straightened and looked into the sky, filled with gray clouds. "Aye, it is."

 

"Goodnight, Mac." Joe's words, and the sounds of his car driving off, were almost lost in the murmur of Duncan's memory.

He and Connor had spent thirty-four years together on that ranch. Until it became clear that people had begun to notice. When they parted, Duncan had returned to Paris, and Connor had made his first trip to Egypt.

It had been one of the longest lives they'd been able to live together. One of his favorite memories.

Winter was here. It was on the ground, and in the air. It was in his heart.

"I know you're here, inside of me, Connor. But I want you beside me instead. Where I can touch you," he addressed the moon. "I miss you."

The moon didn't answer. When Duncan turned to walk to his car, a light snow began to fall. He smiled sadly.


End file.
